


Mistletoe and Wine

by unscriptedemily



Series: Sonataverse [3]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Bad Puns, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Crack, Domestic Fluff, First Christmas, Knitting, Living Together, M/M, Presents, and more Actual Hilarious Content ya feel, here it is, im hoping that it's less just me having a shit sense of humor, in all its half-baked glory, just as i promised, knitting!christmas!fic, look i trust the opinion of the person who told me this was funny so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:09:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roy and Ed's guide on how <i>not</i> to do Christmas properly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistletoe and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO !!!! first of all i would like to apologise for this terrible, terrible thing that i have made. it started off well but then it just sort of. degenerated into pure crack. so, uh. have fun with that <3 
> 
> SECONDLY thank you my wonderful beta, [kat](http://www.edwarcl.tumblr.com), for gettin this shit done with zero warning and a very short time frame. ur the BEST and it's fantastic and everything is fantastic because ur the best. nice.  
> (also yeah thats right guys. this shit is BETAED. say au revoir to the days of me posting shitty ooc multichaps riddled with typos, horrific grammar mistakes, and with absolutely no plot that makes sense !!!!!)
> 
> AND FINALLY: merry christmas to everyone who celebrates it!!!! i have been listenign to mariah carey and michael buble On Repeat for three days now and i am feeling FESTIVE !!

It’s not raining anymore. The clouds have cleared away, and although they didn’t get the white Christmas they were hoping for, at least they didn’t get a _grey_ one, either. Frost laces the window panes; Ed has one hand pressed flat against the cold glass, the other tapping at the sill. Roy blows steam off the surface of the hot chocolate mug, and wonders which masterpiece Ed is composing this time.

It’s very quiet, this early in the morning. It rained all night and they’ve been awake for nearly that long; Ed restless at the piano they managed to squeeze up the stairs and into the corner of the sitting room (god knows how; Roy vaguely remembers that it had taken him, Maes, Al and Riza just to get it into the main building) and Roy fielding last-minute phone calls from Maes about _Christmas dinner tomorrow, Roy, what time are you getting here? Gracia’s making pie! Have you got Elysia’s present yet?_

The tree is an artificial, tinsel-smothered, five-foot-tall, obnoxiously bright atrocity that Ed had dragged through the front door at eleven p.m. last night, grinning wildly. Apparently someone had given it to him as a gift at his Christmas Eve concert; Roy had been too busy supervising Ed’s decoration techniques—i.e. wrapping as much tinsel as possible around the thing before it toppled over and broke a vase—to get the full story.

So it’s Christmas. 25th of December.

And they’re tired, but not as in the crushing exhaustion that Ed gets sometimes, where Roy comes home (home—their apartment— _theirs_ ) from work and finds Ed silent at the piano surrounded by sheets and sheets of torn music, as if a storm had blown in and tried to peel the very notes from their staves.

“Merry Christmas, Ed,” Roy says softly, and Ed looks up at him, smiles.

“Merry Christmas.” He says, and moves away from the window to search through the books and papers on the coffee table. “Hey, d’you have a—?”

“Pen?” Roy asks, and holds one out to him, leaning against the back of the couch. “Al called earlier. He says he’s bringing our presents to Maes’ and to expect cake.”

Ed grabs the pen, pulling blank score paper out of the stacks of pages on the piano. “Sweet. Did we use all the wrapping paper already? I wanna give Al the broken vase. What kind of cake?”

Roy sips his hot chocolate. “The broken vase? Do I want to know why you want to gift your loving younger brother a parcel full of _broken glass_ as a Christmas present? And Al said chocolate cake. Since apparently you have something against traditional Christmas cake.”

Ed wrinkles his nose, scuffing his socked feet on the carpet. He’s wearing the music note pyjamas that Al bought him as part of the housewarming present a few weeks ago. His socks are odd, the left patterned with reindeer and the right with what looks like various instruments. They’re hideous. And Roy thinks he looks adorable.

“It’s, like, a tradition. Give each other really shitty fake-gifts, and then pull out the real shit at the end. Last year Al got me a rubber goose. We named it Amadeus and then, like, halfway through dessert one of Winry’s friends’ boyfriends sat on it and it made this fucking _horrific_ really loud strangled screaming noise and I choked on a profiterole ‘cause I was laughing so much. Did Al tell you I hate Christmas cake? It’s full of fruit and shit—it’s _awful_. Although I guess it’s pretty fucking typical that _you’d_ like it.”

He finishes scribbling on the paper, puts the cap back on the pen with a _click_ , and waves the sheet around in the air to dry it.

“It’s typical that I’d like fruit cake?” Roy asks, deciding to pass over the rubber goose, “Just because I can appreciate _good_ Christmas traditions, Edward—,”

“The only good thing about Christmas cake is when you set that shit on fire,” Ed declares, laying the music on top of the pile and hopping up onto the piano next to it, swinging his legs. His gaze zeros in on the mug in Roy’s hand. “Is that hot chocolate? Did you make me some?”

Roy looks down at his mug, which says _music puns aren’t my forte_ in bold around it. Ed had gotten it for him three months ago.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but I decided not to because it was too much _treble_ for me.”

Atop the piano, Ed goes completely still.

“I’m kidding,” Roy says, putting his own hot chocolate down on the coffee table, “of course I made you some. Did my joke happen to fall a bit _flat_?”

Ed draws in a deep breath.

“Although,” says Roy, readying himself to run, “I suppose it’s to be expected that it went a little over your head.”

He doesn’t quite reach the bathroom in time, before Ed catches up to him—displaying quite remarkable skill by vaulting over the couch and tackling Roy’s legs just metres away from the lockable door of the bathroom, sending them into a tangled heap of limbs and bruises and Ed shrieking and Roy gasping for air.

***

Roy makes breakfast, French toast and coffee, and Ed lies on the couch complaining about the neighbours upstairs, who have now awoken and are evidently getting into the Christmas spirt by blasting Mariah Carey at ‘ _eight fucking fifteen in the morning, Roy, I_ swear _, I’m gonna go up there and—‘ ‘Ed, take your boots off—the landlord is going to evict us if you—wait, wait, breakfast’s ready_.”  “— _Really? Breakfast? Okay then.”_

And they sit on the couch; since the kitchen isn’t big enough to hold a table, too; and Ed pours copious amounts of syrup on his toast and tells Roy that since he’s going to get cavities from all Roy’s _sap_ , anyway, he might as well make the most of it. And they clear away the plates, and Ed kisses all of Roy’s bruises and mutters, pouting, “You shouldn’t have called me short,” in a way that Roy knows means _sorry_.  
  
And after breakfast is presents, and Ed remembers how to be excited all over again, bouncing up and down madly telling Roy to _hurry it the fuck_ up _, bastard_ as Roy undoes all the sellotape from his clumsily wrapped present painstakingly slowly and carefully.

It’s a CD.

The sleeve is covered in Ed’s sharpie scrawl; after some deciphering, Roy makes out that it says something along the lines of, _you are the sappiest asshole ive ever met so you better fucking enjoy this. and don’t say something stupid._

How very Ed-ish. Roy slides the disc out, and this, too, is written upon; a track-list. Ed is watching him, eyes wary and bright and luminous.

The CD is an album of _Ed’s songs_.

Roy stares at it for a minute, wordless, because what does he say to this? How was he supposed to come up with something to say--preferably something witty—would get across all the jumbled emotion clogging his throat?

“You made me a mixtape.” He says, dumbly. And predictably, Ed scowls, cheeks heating up.

“It’s not a _mixtape_ , this isn’t the fucking 1980s, Roy. It’s a—bunch of songs and shit. Because you need educating on proper music. None of that Taylor Swift bullshit; this is the _real deal_.”

Roy looks up at him, mouth slightly open. “I don’t know what to say.” He says, honestly, because he doesn’t have anything left. Ed’s eyes widen slightly; he looks a little panicked.

“Well,” he says, “if you- I mean, you don’t have to fucking _like_ it; Al doesn’t know _shit,_ you can- give it back, or whatever, I don’t—“

“ _Ed_ ,” says Roy, “No. I like it. I _love_ it. It’s amazing— _you’re_ amazing. Did Al help you with this? I—Ed, _thank you_. Really. I mean it.”

And he does. He really, really does; holding this in his hands is like holding something altogether more precious than a simple CD; it’s Ed’s music, the most important thing to Ed after his little brother, of course; it’s Ed’s _life_.

Ed looks away, blushing furiously and trying to hide it. “Shut up. Didn’t—know what to get you, so Al thought of this. He said you’d like it, and I guess he was right, because you’re the sappiest fucking bastard on this planet, and-,”

Roy smiles at him. Really smiles, really, really, because Ed deserves everything Roy could possibly give him and more, and Roy doesn’t know where to start except with himself. How do you tell your lover that you want to give them everything you have and everything you are, if only they’d accept it? Roy doesn’t know if there are words in the world that could say that to Ed and not have him trample all over them with his inexplicably endearing Edishness.

“I love it,” Roy tells him again, running his fingers over the hard plastic cover, over Ed’s jagged handwriting scribbled there in permanent marker.

Ed chews furiously on his lip. “…Yeah.” He says, refusing to make eye contact, and clears his throat loudly, scrabbling in the mess of wrapping paper to dig out his own gift from Roy.

***

The love of Roy’s life graciously takes a moment to laugh at the music note patterned wrapping paper that Roy picked out especially for the occasion before he tears into the present with the voracity of a feral bear.

The wrappings now flung over his shoulder to join the various other remains of Ed’s war on every and all type of decorative paper, Ed unfolds Roy’s present with a little less savagery and a little more care. He holds it up in front of him, smile slowly unfurling, and then he laughs, delighted, gathering it to his chest and _grinning_.

And Roy is smiling too, so full of affection he can’t hold it in.

“You knitted me a _sweater_ ,” Ed says, tugging it over his head and marvelling at the sight of it as if he’s never had sleeves before, “you _knitted_ me a _sweater._ ”

“I did.” Roy replies. “Do you like it?”

Ed stares at him, eyes bright and hair caught in the collar of the sweater- it’s too big for him, Roy knew it would be; it’s obnoxious, vision-assaulting red, the reddest Roy could find, and it has the words _fight me_ emblazoned in bold black across the chest. Roy had though Ed might appreciate that.

“This is fucking stupid,” Ed says, reaching up to tug his hair out of the back, “How’d you do it so _secretly_?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing every night of your concerts? Pining?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Ed says, and Roy shakes his head, laughs again, and pulls him in for a kiss.

***

They’ve got four hours until they’re expected at the Hughes’. The presents are wrapped and sitting on the counter; Roy didn’t quite manage to persuade Ed not to put the broken glass in a tiny gift box and put a bow on it, too, so it’s sitting amongst the other (genuine) presents with a scribbled tag and a remarkably suspicious air of innocence. Oh, well. At least Roy can count on Alphonse giving Ed something equally, if not more so, abstract and potentially dangerous.

They get ready slowly, brushing teeth and showering; afterwards, Roy brushes Ed’s wet air, coaxing the tangles out and combing through until Ed shivers and turns bright red.

And then it’s the mandatory Christmas sweaters, and jeans; Ed seems to have a _thing_ for Roy in casual clothing because it takes a while before he can actually _get dressed,_ and then Ed’s pulling one of his multiple pairs of identical black jeans out of the dresser and refusing to take off Roy’s magnum opus: the red knitted monstrosity.

“Ed,” says Roy, “you’re not honestly going to wear that, are you?”

“Why the hell not?” Ed asks stubbornly, gathering his hair into a ponytail. He’s donned his only nice collared shirt for the occasion, under the red sweater. “It’s warm. It’s festive.”

“It says ‘fight me’ on the front.”

“So?”

“That was meant more for comedic effect than actual Christmas cheer, Ed.”

Ed scowls at him. “Don’t care. ‘S there coffee? Or are we gonna open _the alcohol_?”

By _the alcohol_ , he means the ribbon-tied bottle of very expensive cabernet sauvignon that Roy had been planning on taking with them to Maes’ as part of the celebrations.

“Definitely not,” he says. Ed looks at him, sits up a little straighter on the bed, and grins.

“No.” Roy tells him, moving to stand in the doorway. “That wine is a _gift_.”

“Come _on_ ,” Ed wheedles, “We already got ‘em, like, five hundred gifts already. I wanna drink it.”

He jumps down off the bed, and Roy can’t even bring himself to make a joke about that.

“No.”

“ _Roy_.”

“ _No_.”

***

They drink the wine.

Of course they do.

***

Ed laughs, head thrown back, hair cascading, amidst the storm of wrapping paper, and Roy catches his hands and tugs him upright; stumbling, they dance. Ed trips into him—for a musician he has _no_ sense of rhythm, at least not with his feet—and wraps his arms around Roy’s neck while the shitty Christmas music on the radio blares behind them. Their own laughter keeps them afloat; even if Ed really _is_ a horrible dancer; and Roy’s too drunk on, well, the wine, but also the sheer _wonder_ in dancing with Ed in _their_ apartment, which _they_ bought, because _they_ moved in together, to teach him how—

“You’re not very good at this, are you?” Roy says, wincing as his foot is trodden on. Ed scowls up at him and yanks him closer.

“I _thought_ you were making the most of the one day a year where you’re allowed to be as fucking sappy as you want?”

Good point. Roy leans down, kisses him slow and deep and lingering, takes his breath and swallows it. Ed tastes of wine and music and delight.

“We have two hours until we need to go to Maes’,” he murmurs in Ed’s ear, and Ed grabs a handful of his shirt, pulling him towards the bedroom.

“Come _on_ , then,” he says, and Roy can do nothing but grin helplessly at him as he follows.

***

“I can’t believe we drank the wine.” Roy says as they climb into the taxi. Ed pats his arm consolingly. His automail hand has a lurid, lime-green glove on it, protecting it from the cold—there may not be any snow, but the air is frosty and the wind has a definite bite to it. Ed’s other hand is gloveless.

“Only half of it,” he says, “there’s still some left for when we get back.”

Roy twists in his seat to give Ed the most disgruntled look he can muster. “That is _not_ the point. We were supposed to have something to give to them!”

“We _do_ ,” Ed says, and gestures to the array of brightly wrapped presents between them on the middle seat. Roy looks at them forlornly.

“But you’re supposed to bring alcohol.” he says. “It’s a _tradition_.”

“We _got_ tradition,” Ed says, grabbing the box of broken glass and thrusting it into the air. It makes a pleasant tinkling noise as the contents are shaken about. “Fake presents! _Rubber geese!_ ”

Up front, the taxi driver glances at them in the rearview mirror, evidently concerned. Roy smiles at him and elbows Ed in the arm, which is the only place he can reach.

“You’re still drunk.” He says. “This is a disaster.”

“I’m not fucking drunk.” Ed protests, and places the box back on the seat, folding his arms across his sweatered chest. Roy pretends he doesn’t notice the tightness in Ed’s back, the way his eyes dart to the window, watching the mostly-melted ice on the pavement. “Your sweater is crooked. And boring.”

Roy raises his eyebrows at that as he adjusts the sweater, and reaches across to take Ed’s hand. “ _Boring_?”

Ed nods vehemently, and holds Roy’s hand tightly as the houses whip past them; the light is pale and washed out, the clouds are off-white and faded grey, smothering the world with a cold, chilled hue.

The jumper in question is dark blue, with white and green snowflakes around the hem. A white stripe runs around the centre, from front to back, with a black and gold reindeer pattern inside it. Roy found it online for $10 including shipping costs, which was at least sixty percent more cost effective than any of the unsightly, overpriced excuses for knitwear that he’d seen in stores, so he’d bought it.

Also, he didn’t trust himself to make a sweater that wouldn’t embarrass him. Embarrassing Ed, he’d thought, would be a fine idea. But now he was having severe second thoughts, not least because Ed didn’t appear to be embarrassed about it in any way.

Which was- unexpected. And also made Roy feels warm, right in the centre.

It was good. Everything- the mess and the drinking the wine they were supposed to give to their friends as a Christmas dinner party gift; it was all just _good_ , and _right_ , and Roy Mustang was in love with Edward Elric, and had been since they first met each other’s’ eyes from across a crowded auditorium.

“Here you go,” says the taxi driver, slowly to a halt outside Maes’ house, “23 Redfort Drive. Merry Christmas.”

They let go of each other’s hands; Ed’s eyes say _thanks_ as he gathers up the presents, stacking them precariously in his arms, and Roy quirks a smile at him, pays the driver, and takes some of the presents before they make a desperate break for freedom away from Ed and onto the gravel driveway.

Roy’s hand has barely touched the knocker before the door is yanked open and Maes is there, beaming, wearing a truly hideous Christmas jumper complete with sewed-on bells and flashing lights, ushering them inside.

“Roy!” He says first, pulling Roy into a hug. “I give you six out of ten for Christmas cheer. Smile!”  
There is a flash, a few seconds in which Roy is unable to do much else but blink rapidly, and Maes takes advantage of the situation by picking up the topmost present from the small pile in Roy's arms and peering at the label- he honestly is just an overgrown five year old sometimes- and then his vision clears and he looks down to see Elysia, decked out in a party dress and Santa hat and holding up a very familiar camera. Ed reaches over to add Roy's presents into his own arms, and this is rapidly becoming increasing similar to a very festive game of hot potato, what with the amount the gifts are being passed around between them. The camera flashes again and Elysia laughs, a bright bell sound, clear and sweet. 

“I suppose she takes after you, then?” Roy asks Maes, raising an eyebrow as he bends down to pick her up and swing her around.

“Uncle Roy!” Elysia says, eyes wide and shining, “Did you bring presents?”

“We did,” Roy promises, and sets her back down on the ground to gesture at Ed. “Uncle Ed has them. You haven’t said hello yet, have you?”

Ed gives Roy a mildly panicked look as Elysia turns her gaze on him. “Uncle Ed!” she shouts, and raises her arms imperiously. “ _Up!_ ”

Maes laughs brightly as Ed grins back at her, tipping the pile of gifts into Roy’s arms and hefting Elysia up into the air. “He’s good with her, isn’t he?”

Roy watches as Elysia chatters excitedly into Ed’s ear about school, and music, and photography, and as Ed replies with matching enthusiasm.

“He is.” Roy says, and turns to offer the rest of the presents to Maes. “Here. Some Christmas cheer for you.”

Maes takes Roy’s arm instead of the gifts and tugs him into the sitting room. Gracia is sipping mulled wine by the couch, and Riza is already there, smiling softly as they talked.

“Roy!” Gracia’s eyes light up when she sees him and she moves over to hug him tightly. “Is Ed here as well? It’s been _far_ too long since I last saw him. Al already called ahead to tell us he’s coming with Jean and the rest of them.”

“Ed’s here,” Roy tells her, hugging her back with difficulty, the presents in his arms impeding his way; they seem to have gotten ten times heavier since he got out of the taxi. “ _And_ dying to taste your apple pie again. Is there somewhere I can put these?”

“Oh, of course, “Gracia smiles, taking them out of his arms as though they weigh nothing and depositing them under the tree in the corner of the room. Well—he says corner, yes, but really, the tree takes up almost a quarter of the entire room by itself. It’s _huge_. And _real_. And covered in homemade ornaments and baubles and enough tinsel to make Ed’s decorating techniques look tame.

“Your tree is _amazing_ ,” Roy says weakly, and Riza smirks at him from the sofa.

“It is, isn’t it?” Gracia smiles ruefully. “Elysia chose it. I swear, Maes spoils her absolutely rotten…although I suppose I’m guilty as charged, too. We’re supposed to be immune to Bambi-Eyes, but for some reason, it works every single time. You’d better watch out Ed doesn’t fall victim to her charms as well,” she warns, “Elysia is utterly _ruthless_.”

“Just like her dad, eh?” Maes says, entering back in from the kitchen; Roy hadn’t even seen him disappear. He leans over to kiss Gracia on the cheek, and claps Roy on the shoulder. “The turkey is cooking.” He declares. “It is in the oven. Although it was a long, hard battle—the skills of man have overpowered that of beast.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Roy asks, but Maes has already darted back into the hallway again. Gracia shakes her head.

“Don’t ask. Come and sit down. Would you like some mulled wine?”

_Wine_? Not for another trillion years or so, actually. “Oh—no, thank you. I’ve already had some today, actually.”

“Already?” Riza asks, moving up to make room for him on the sofa. He gives her a look.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he says.

“What wasn’t your idea?” Ed is carrying Elysia on his shoulders when he walks in; he bends down carefully so she can jump off before he straightens up to give Roy an inquisitive look. “Budge up.” Roy sighs, shuffling over to that Ed can squeeze himself into the gap on the couch, smiling with a faraway look in his eyes.

“We were talking about _the_ _alcohol_.” Roy tells him. “Do you need some paper?”

It’s the same look he gets when he’s composing, the distant, thoughtful gaze. But Ed shakes his head, looking back at Roy.

“Nah, it’s not that—Elysia’s great, isn’t she? Al was like that when he was a kid, too. Well—kinda. There was a lot more destruction of property involved, although I guess that was mainly my fault—,”

There are three sharp raps at the door at exactly the same time as Ed’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He leaps up from his seat, and vanishes from sight before Roy has a chance to take a breath.

“That’ll be Al, then.” Riza says.

***

The turkey is delicious—of course it is. Ed has three helpings of everything and Jean only _just_ manages to keep up with him; Gracia serves them all more and more, beaming, and Maes scarcely sits still. Winry arrives not long after Al, Jean, Kain and the rest; she looks very pretty in a blue dress, and her earrings are dangling miniature Christmas trees which fascinate Elysia all evening. Jean brought wine, of course, and eventually Maes persuades Roy into a glass or two, and then Ed joins in, and then they’re all laughing with Al caught between expressions of mirth and long-suffering as he takes on the role of clapping his hand over Ed’s mouth every time he goes to swear in his usual loud and flamboyant manner.

“Presents!” calls Maes after their plates are cleared once and for all—no matter how many times Ed casts longing looks towards the apple pie.

Elysia perks up at once; she’d been falling asleep on Rose’s lap, playing with Kain’s glasses up until then, but now she was wide awake.

“Presents!” she echoes, bounding down from her chair and into the sitting room. They all follow, Christmas spirit rekindled. Ed stakes out a patch of sofa for him and Roy before everyone else gets there first, ensuring they’re not the unlucky ones—namely, Jean, Breda and Falman- who are forced onto the floor.

***

They do presents. They do wrapping paper flying and Ed almost giving himself an aneurysm laughing when Al opens the box of broken glass and looks up with a dry smile and says, “Thanks, Brother.” And then _Roy_ almost suffocates laughing when Ed opens the fake present from Al, which turns out to be a collection of ‘tips and tricks on how to grow those extra few inches!’

And Maes gives Roy a mug with a pun on it (predictably) and in return Roy gives Maes a pair of granddad slippers, and Jean gets an anonymous gift—which Breda firmly declares to be “from Father Christmas himself, Jean, who _else_?”—consisting of a gold-embossed hardback copy of ‘Why You Haven’t Got A Girlfriend Yet—And How To Change Yourself To Change That Fact.’

Riza gets a new leash for her dog, and also an antique revolver. Everyone receives very expensive and delectable chocolates from Rose, who says with a sunbeam smile that she got them at a discount from the chocolatier she works at. She couldn’t think of how else to get rid of them, at which Ed’s eyes go perfectly round and he asks her—gaining a round of laughter, even though Roy knows he’s completely serious—if she thinks he could quit music and get a job there instead.

And nearing the end of the night, when everyone’s sitting back content and covered in various pieces of ribbon, Elysia pulls out her toy keyboard and demands in the cutest, politest way possible that Ed play them a song.

He blushes, bright red, and Al nudges him in the leg with a socked foot and says, “Go on, Brother, you know you want to.” And then Jean starts chanting, and Breda joins in, too, and then _everyone’s_ cheering for Ed to take the keyboard and play something, and Ed gives in.

He plays the song from that one concert, the one where he and Roy locked eyes from across a sea of people, and Roy doesn’t know if Ed’s doing it on purpose or not, but despite the tinny, electronic keyboard notes and the lack of any kind of sustain pedal, he recognises it. Of course he does. How could he not?

And Al recognises it too. Roy sees him sit up a little straighter, and he sees him smile in a way that Roy has learned to be very, very afraid of because it means he’s up to something. Roy isn’t sure if it’s the Christmas-ness of the whole thing or the unreasonable amount of wine he’s consumed today, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Ed’s face and Ed’s eyes, and he _knows_ he’s staring and he _knows_ that Maes knows that he’s staring and will definitely have something loud and probably mortifying to say about that. But he can’t stop.

Ed and him. Him and Ed.

The keyboard stops, and Ed grins sheepishly, runs a hand through his bangs. Elysia applauds, jumping up and down, eyes wide and sparkling, and Maes joins in; everyone joins in. Jean wolf whistles. Ed turns to look at Roy, and Roy reaches over and threads his fingers through Ed’s.

Ed grips his hand tightly, eyes suddenly fierce on Roy’s. _I know,_ he says without saying anything at all. _I know_.

***

The apartment is strangely quiet when they get back. Roy unlocks the door and they stumble in; the long string of all-nighters form the past few days has final caught up with Ed, and he only manages a few steps before flopping facedown onto the sofa.

“Coffee.” He mumbles, and Roy shakes his head, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes.

“Not a chance, Ed. _More_ caffeine is not the right choice to be making here.”

Ed makes a noise which Roy translates to meaning: _well what the fuck_ is _the right choice, then?_

He moves over to the couch, leaning down and stroking Ed’s hair, shaking it out of the hair tie. “Sleep,” he says, and Ed sighs, long and deep.

“’M not tired.” He lies, and Roy huffs a laugh.

“Right,” he says. “All that yawning was just for show, was it?”

“Duh,” Ed mumbles into the sofa cushions, “’m an excellent actor.”

Roy bends down to kiss his head. “Merry Christmas, love.”

“Y’r sweater is still boring.”

“I apologise.”

“No you don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Come on, up. You’ll get a crick in your neck if you sleep on the couch.”

Ed allows himself to be hauled upright, then falls limply against Roy, digging his feet into the carpet and letting all his weight bear on Roy’s arms. “ _No_ ,” he wails, “Can’t—move….exhausted…just—go. Leave me…I’ll be…fine…”

And with that, he collapses in a heap on the floor.

Roy looks at him for a moment.

“Well, alright then.” He says, and turns and walks out of the room.

***

There’s a sprig of mistletoe in Roy’s pocket which definitely wasn’t there when they left this morning, which meant that Maes…had thought this would be funny.

Of course he had.

Roy is examining the small parasitic plant, holding it up to the light, when Ed wanders in, pulling off his sweater and shirt in one go and kicking his boots off as he walks. The strewn garments leave a trail that tends to follow Ed wherever he goes in the apartment.

“The fuck is that?” He asks, walking up behind Roy and leaning against him, shivering. “’S cold. ‘S that _mistletoe_?”

“Indeed it is,” says Roy, turning to face him, and Ed eyes him sceptically for a moment before looking up to focus his glare on the plant instead. “Do you know the tradition behind mistletoe, Edward?”

“Duh,” says Ed, “Everyone and Jesus knows the—oh. Smooth, Mustang. Real fuckin’ smooth.”

“Thank you,” says Roy, smiling wider now, tilting Ed’s chin up with two fingers and leaning in close; Ed manages to keep the sardonic look on his face up until the very last second, at which he, too, breaks into a smirk. “I do try.”

Ed reaches up, snags the mistletoe from Roy’s fingers, and tosses it over his shoulder.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Roy,” he breathes into his mouth, and they stumble backwards, legs tangling, to fall onto the bed.

Merry Christmas indeed.


End file.
